Many Meetings: A Tale of Improbable Coincidence
by Caporal
Summary: A mad crossover involving elves, wizards, angels (fallen and otherwise), and children who never grow up.


**Notes: **This was written last summer and fixed up last week, as a gift for the lovely Jessat. I call it the Crossover ficlet of Dooom, and am posting it mainly in order to see about this new uploading system. It doesn't pretend to be remotely serious or possible, and you should just be glad I didn't try to work in Les Miserables or the Picture of Dorian Gray or anything else like that.

**Disclaimer:** None of this belong to me. None. Draco and Neville belong to JK Rowling. Maglor and Daeron to JRR Tolkein or whoever holds the rights. The angels go to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Peter Pan and Tinkerbell belong to JM Barrie, but I am using the incarnations from the recent movie, so they also belong to the director of said movie. Lyrics belong to Billy Joel, poetry to JRR Tolkein-or-whoever-holds-the-rights.

**Warnings:** Slash, a bit of swearing, impossibility, discovery of the horizontal rule and possible overuse of such.

**

* * *

**

Many Meetings

**A Tale of Improbable Coincidence**

* * *

"Now think of all the years you've tried to

Find someone to satisfy you 

I might be as crazy as you say 

If I'm crazy then it's true 

That it's all because of you 

And you wouldn't want me any other way" 

Makalaurë Turkafinwë cursed his doom. He'd been cursing it more than usual for the last forty years of the Sun, give or take a decade. For even in the darkest of the Elder Days, he'd never -in his opinion- fallen so low. Caught in the webs of fate, ever fleeing unsuccessfully from a preordained doom to wander forever as the last fallen scion of a cursed house was one thing. Covering early eighties music on a half-deserted beach was quite another. As one of the greatest poets of Arda Marred, his dignity might never forgive him. 

But let us turn our attention from the disgruntled Noldo on the makeshift stage to two of the beachgoers. 

Two young men, who couldn't possibly be older than twenty-five. One is blond and slender and has the inbred anemic look associated with aristocratic lineage, the other marginally shorter and stouter, with messy brown hair and freckles that make him look about twelve. To you, Dearest Reader, they are very obviously Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom. They're lying on a gigantic black silk beach towel that's probably a sheet nicked from Draco's manor, half-listening to the nearby musician. He's got a good voice, Neville thinks, but his heart's just not in it. He's damned _gorgeous_. (Damned being the operative word, wether or not he knows it). That would be Draco, and if Neville could hear it, he might be a bit upset. 

Neville can't hear them, but the thoughts hardly go unnoticed. A little further down the beach, another young man, who, according to some contemporary artists, looks eerily like a certain schoolmate of the boys, smirks, and his eyes beneath his sunglasses glance over at the singer. Really, boy, you should have seen him in his prime. 

Too nice for you, hellbait. Yet another young-looking man is at the shoreline, building a sandcastle underwater. Some people have believed him to be the spitting image of our friend Draco, but if that were the case, Neville would soon be left quite alone. We like to think he resembles a certain Welsh man, but that's just us. 

Draco was, at the moment, observing these two, oblivious to all the mental dropping of eaves going on. He observed three things about the aquatic architect: that he was that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these, though he didn't know it, were wrong. That last, however, seemed to be applicable to a fair few here. 

Nice? Read your lore, O bookworm. 

_Comparatively _nice, then. 

Now you're talking. 

::smugness:: 

Although judging by the present company, I've no problem with _nice ._

So it would seem. Turrets or crenelations? 

There's just no accounting for taste. 

Kss. If I still had that sword... 

I'm not sure I want to know what you'd do with it. 

Die. Now. And curse in vain. 

I wasn't cursing.

* * *

"You may be right, 

I may be crazy 

But It just may be a lunatic you're looking for 

Turn out the light 

Don't try to save me You may be wrong but for all I know You may be right 

You may be wrong but you may be right 

You may be wrong but you may be right." 

Maglor resisted the urge to smash his guitar on the folding steel of the platform. The things cost money. But at least this one was over. He descended the steps to slow applause. 

"Elen sila, and all that." said his appreciative auditor. 

_Such players there have only been_

_thrice in all Elfinesse, I ween._

_Tinfang Gelion, who still the moon_

_enchants on summer nights of June_

_and kindles the pale firstling star;_

_and he who wanders on the far_

_forgotten beaches and dark shores _

_where western foam forever roars,_

_Maglor whose voice is like the sea; _

_And Daeron, mightiest of the three._

Maglor silently cursed the ancient poet and audibly cursed the still more ancient one standing in front of him. 

"Vas te faire foutre" 

"I didn't quite catch that, chérie." 

"Go. Fuck. Your. Self." 

"Really, now. Have some sympathy for one in your position." 

Maglor grinned for the first time in what felt like -and probably was- years. "You're the next act." 

Daeron twitched slightly. "Indeed. Care to drink yourself into oblivion with me afterwards?" 

"It would seem an agreeable prospect. Just so long as you don't repeat your antics of last time."

* * *

What happened last time? 

Daeron got very drunk. Drunk enough to sing off-key. 

Sensitive pansy elves. 

It's Daeron. And they shagged. 

And you tell _me_ to read my lore. Isn't Maglor married? 

That's debatable. And suffice to say there's loopholes 

There would be, wouldn't there? How d'you know this, anyway? 

Cantina in Spain around the beginning of the Inqusition. I was there. 

It really is a small world. 

_Please._

Mortals are happily oblivious to these things. As Daeron of Doriath launched into 'All You Need Is Love' with considerable distaste, as an angel put the finishing touches on his underwater palace, as another angel who hadn't so much Fallen as Sauntered Vaguely Downwards literally undressed him with his eyes, and as Maglor, son of Fëanor, who'd quite definitely Fallen, no doubt about it, slumped off to a cheap hotel room to an unappetizing meal of cold Kraft Dinner, Draco Malfoy basked lazily in the sun, magically protected from any sort of tan, immensely enjoying the abovementioned disrobing.

* * *

A hand shifts, and a spray of glitter drifts down from above the stage to settle in Daeron's hair. It is a child's hand, unwashed, with bitten fingernails. 

See the youthful face framed by messy golden curls? The way that pink mouth slides upward in a careless smirk? sparkling green eyes that with age would be called bedroom? The frustratingly childish voice that whispers 

"Come on, Tink!"? 

You see it, clear as the Light an elf lost long ago. And you know that face spells trouble. 

And you love it.

* * *


End file.
